


to marry a dream

by quqin



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Barely any tho, Fluff, Idk what i'm doing, Light Angst, M/M, No Beta We Die Like Endermen, Prince Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Prince Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), pretentious shit lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28606317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quqin/pseuds/quqin
Summary: This is what it feels like, he realises, to have a husband who is yours, and your nation. This is what it feels like to have a lover who loves both the label of peace, and you, with every single part of his being.This is what it feels like to marry a far-away dream, and this is what it feels like to love the Dream.(or, Dream marries Techno to ensure peace between their nations, but together, they manage to find something more along the way.)
Relationships: Clay | Dream/Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 78
Kudos: 663





	to marry a dream

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Important disclaimer that i am only shipping their personas, not the real people!! If the original CCs ever mention explicitly that they are uncomfortable with this kind of stuff, I will immediately take this down. Please don’t shove this onto them or show it to them either!! 
> 
> 2\. I was still pretty burnt out from writing “you’re everything, everything’s you” when I started on this so i’m afraid that this isn’t exactly of supreme quality either and i somehow managed to get even MORE burnt out than before so yeah this flopped towards the end i’m sorry lmaoOOO this took me so goddamn long to write it has quite literally been more than a month: i started this on December 5th and now….oh god
> 
> 3\. The marriage ceremony in the first scene is inspired mostly by ancient chinese wedding rituals!!! Ofc i left out a lot of other aspects of the ceremony but the main stuff is there, Idk i didn’t quite fancy the plain “read ur vows, chuck on a ring and pash” process of a lot of western weddings so i went the extra mile lmaooo 
> 
> 4\. this fic is originally inspired by pududoll's 'honeymouthed and full of wildflowers'! If you want to check out their fic then the link is https://archiveofourown.org/works/19001992/chapters/45123763 + before someone says i've plagiarised their work, i've talked already with the author and sorted everything out. thank you :)))
> 
> Anyways, thank you for all the support I’ve been given so far, and I hope you enjoy reading <3<3<3

The land of the south is the land of silk, fortune, and dreams, they say. 

It is what he has married, Techno realises, as he stands at the altar beside the prince of the south. Dream smells like the ocean, like salted caramel, like flowers and honey, like the sweet wine he had to drink before the ceremony, but most of all, under all that perfume and the silk and the satin, he smells like glory and ruin. 

There are cloths of pine, ivory and marigold that drape around him, and the goldenrod flowers in his fair hair shine under the light that blows across them from the candles of the crystal chandelier suspended above. The gilded earrings that dangle from his ears and the gems that adorn his neck glitter delicately with the scintillation of stars, and the seafoam of the diaphanous veil that falls across his features ripple with his movements, like cerulean waters, like bubbling mountain brooks. He is silk, he is fortune, and he is Dream. Techno does not need to have any romantic feelings for the other to be able to tell that he looks divine. 

“To the heavens and earth, bow first.” 

The fabric of his azure blazer creases as he, along with Dream, faces the grandiose hall and bows. Marriage should be a joyous event, one of celebration and festivities, but there is only solemn silence and emptiness between Techno and the southern prince as they rise. 

“To your ancestors and parents, bow second.” 

They turn to face the throne, the blonde-haired prince’s veil fluttering and shimmering with his movement as together, they bow to King Phil. Techno thinks that he can see emotion glittering in those irides of his father - pride, love, sorrow and hope, as he straightens up. It has been a long time since the first war broke out between the north and the south, and it would all end today - with the union between two princes of the respective nations. What the north lacked in riches, they made up for with their overbearing military power, while with the oceans feeding the citizens of the south fat with the trades they bore and the fish to be caught, they were to be bare in offspring of royalty. 

“To each other, bow last.” 

They shift to face each other, andTechno thinks that he catches a glimpse of fear glistening in the depths of Dream’s eyes before they are hidden from the northern prince’s observation as they bow. He sees it however, still, in the way that the younger holds himself so stiffly, yet has a slump in his shoulders as if he bears the weight of the world and responsibilities just as heavy, on his shoulders. He expects to see regret or despondency of some sort streaking across his spouse’s features when they rise to meet each other again, but there is an eerie dullness in his eyes, and it sends shivers down Techno’s back at the emptiness that hangs around the southern prince and in his sage irides. 

“The wine.” 

They step towards each other, and the elder prince thinks that he can see a faint quiver that appears only momentarily in the arm that reaches out to link with his, before it disappears as if it had been nothing but smoke and mirrors, and Technoblade leans in to smell a fleeting sample of wildflowers and sea salt that rests on his tongue, before it is replaced by the heavy liquid of wine as he raises his gilded cup. Dream does not look at him as they tip their chalices back, does not look at him when they unlink their arms to take their respective places again, and does not look at him when they are pronounced spouses. 

It’s like there are heavy chains wearing his partner down, Techno notes, and they imprison him like shackles around his ankles, like wings clipped, as if a mighty falcon had been broken in and caged to become nothing but a show bird, a decoration to be ogled at. They may have previously been on opposing sides, but as a prince himself, and now to be wedded to Dream himself, Techno cannot imagine the shame or suffocation that curdles within his partner, for he too, ultimately, was a soldier. He launched spears, drew back bows and swung axes to slice through epochs of time, as if they had only been an extension of his body, of his honey-coloured limbs, and the prowess of the golden prince of the south was heard even up in the frigid terrain of King Phil’s domain. Yet now, he is to be dressed in heavy garbs, gold weighing down his head and cuffing his hands together while he is to never wield a weapon in slender hands again, to be forced to sit pretty and prim, demure and at Techno’s mercy. 

It makes him sick. A soldier may be killed, but they are not to be humiliated. 

And as the two of them are led to their shared chambers in an uncomfortable silence to consummate the marriage, Techno wonders if Dream will fight - if he will fight him, if he will fight his fate, and if he will fight his duties. 

It won’t be pretty if he does, and Techno never knew how to deal with ruin. 

\---

Dream is sat on the lavish bed, eyes staring firmly at the ghost of the flames dancing on the ceiling of their chamber as Techno watches him, watches the way the burnt blonde strands begin to fall messily from where they had been pinned back, watches the way the light of the flickering candles around them breathe amber into the contours of his husband’s jaw. They had dressed him again, picked off the outer petals of the bud to leave him only in a thin gown, gossamer and pearlescent in the evening light to accentuate his lithe figure. Such soft fabric jars against the rigidity freezing him in place as trepidation radiates off of him in waves. 

There is a heavy and awkward silence between them, and Techno gets to know the first thing about the younger - he has been good at hiding himself, and incredibly so. To such an extent, that he almost forgets that the both of them have barely seen twenty one Januaries, especially with the dignity that had ached in his spouse’s posture in the ceremony hall. Now, however, the northern prince thinks that he can spy a rawness to the blonde-haired boy right now, a rough edge - his mask of gold and splendour falling to the side to reveal the truth underneath - a scared child, who was forced into a destiny he did not want. It splinters at his heart, like a jagged branch, and Techno knows that he will not be able to do it. He will not be able to force him, to break him, to shatter him like glass. 

“I’m not going to touch you,” he says into the stiff air between them, thick clouds of tension seeping into their lungs to suffocate them with the weight of their burdens, and Dream looks up at him finally. The elder thinks that there is something akin to relief that spools in his own stomach at the surprise that glisters in the younger’s eyes as plush peach lips fall open in question, at finally seeing a spark in smokey night skies. 

“What?” Dream blurts out, disbelief coiling in his words as he blinks up at Techno, and the rose-haired prince lets out the breath he had been holding. 

“I’m not going to touch you,” he repeats quietly, lets his words hang in the stuffy air between them, and he expects to see ease seeping into his partner’s eyes, his partner’s body, and he expects to see reposition, expects to see the younger find solace in his words, in the notion that Techno will not force himself onto him. He expects it all, but he does not expect the rage and indignation that ignites in Dream’s eyes. 

“Why not?” said boy hisses, dead peridot waters chopping and churning as a storm brews, “Isn’t that what I’m here for after all? To be a chess piece? To be fucked by you? To be nothing but a displayed toy? To sit pretty on your lap so that everyone can know that our countries are finally at peace?” His syllables slam Techno against a jagged rock as the sheer intensity of his wrath, his defensiveness takes the ruby-eyed prince aback. His eyes thunder like a tempest, but for Techno, who has the ways of sea-faring ingrained into him since his birth in the land of rugged cliffs, he is not afraid to navigate these stormy seas.The skill of maintaining a facade coded into him since young, etched into the very codes of his being, work to quell and hide his alarm, steady his voice, steady his mind.

“No,” he says, “I’m not going to touch you because you don’t want it. And I’m not going to force you into it.” Fires only stay alive if there is oxygen to feed its greedy fingers and sate its salivation, and it’s like Techno has blanketed the fighting flames to snuff out even the last embers in Dream, as said prince seems to slump suddenly at his words, his brief moment of fiery glory effervescent and only existing in its death. 

“It doesn’t matter what I want or don’t want,” Dream says, bitterness and defeat tarnishing his voice with its sooty fingers that leave behind smudged sable in its wake to spoil honey, “It is my duty.” He sags, and it’s like the puppeteer that had been previously tugging on his strings disappeared, leaving behind a limp marionette, hollow and pitiful. Techno doesn’t know what the tight feeling that spruces up in his chest means when he sees the forlorn and lonely look on Dream’s face. 

“Your duty is to bring peace to our nations by marrying me. Nothing more, nothing less. It is not your duty to do anything else that you do not want to do,” he says softly into the dense night, and Nyx calls back Erebus to let the covering of clouds open for them to allow for the moon to shine down through the windows for a moment, Selene blessing the golden prince’s face with her silver light that cascades on his fair hair and peach lips, on his pine eyes, on the contours of his cheeks. Dream’s eyes fall close like a veneer of wings, and Techno observes the distinctive cherubic details of the angel in front of him, capturing the younger’s delicate sensitivities with his merlot irides. 

“Okay,” Dream finally whispers after webs of silence had been spun between them, and Techno releases a breath that he did not realise he had been holding. “I’m afraid we’ll have to share the bed still, I won’t be able to go anywhere else tonight, but I swear I will not do anything,” the rose-haired prince says as he moves slowly towards the bed, the southern prince’s weary eyes fixed on him as he takes one of extra, plush pillows to situate it between them. Dream nods, and slight tension is lifted from Techno’s shoulders as the emerald-eyed boy shifts over, and they both climb under the covers. They lie on their sides, backs to each other, and Techno listens to the light puffs of air from his husband as he shifts to make himself comfortable - if he was even able to get comfortable in a bed with practically a complete stranger for a spouse. 

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, as he waits for Hypnos to arrive. He thinks he hears Dream echo it back to him, before the world falls away. 

\---

He wakes to the sound of a mandarin duck’s unrequited call, and pallid winter sunlight pooling on the beige-carpeted floors beside the bed. Techno blinks his eyes open groggily as he sits up with a groan, rubbing at his temples before he looks over at the empty and cold space next to him on the bed, sheets rumpled and messy. Dream wasn’t there. 

Rose hair slipping down his shoulders, he dresses himself slowly upon getting out of bed. He doesn’t quite know if he feels relieved or not that Dream had left first. It would surely be stuffy and uncomfortable after last night, and perhaps Techno wasn’t quite willing to suffocate on his own words and the intensity of emotions again, but he thinks that at the same time, he wants to know what it feels like to wake up to someone beside you who is yours, but not yours to touch. A husband, but a husband not to you, but to your nation. A lover who loves the label of peace far more than he will ever love you. 

The prince of the north lets out a heavy sigh, before he calls for the servants, ruffling the silky strands of rose hair that fell beyond his shoulders like a gentle waterfall. A maid pokes her head in, and curtsies quickly as Techno rubs the sleep from his eyes. 

“Where is he?” he asks, voice hoarse from disuse, and winces internally at the scratchiness as he observes the shy giggle that escapes as a muffled peal of laughter, and crimson that dusts the servant’s cheeks bright red. 

“The Prince Consort? He woke up surprisingly early despite...a long night. He’s sitting outside in the courtyard right now, your royal highness.” 

The ruby-eyed man pointedly ignores the obvious insinuation in the maid’s words as he nods coldly, and brushes past after he grabs his fur-lined cloak to go find Dream. Winter was not merciful in the north after all, quite fitting of a merciless nation itself where white snow was often painted a pretty and stark sanguine while the black and gunmetal of weapons laid next to limp bodies. They were soldiers, but they were also painters in that sense. 

Boreas greets Techno with his winds of the north and winter when the prince steps outside, tugging his cloak tighter around him to escape his frosty touch, and each exhale that escapes him crystallizes in the air into pale puffs of white clouds before it dissipates and vanishes into the crisp air. He descends the stairs, boots clicking against the polished stone to echo around the courtyard, the ode of lonely man, before he is striding southbound through the arched corridors, shadows flitting across his features to hide him from the luminescence of day and the scintilla of sun reflected in white snow. The morganite-haired prince does not need to walk long, or even search long, in order to find his husband. 

Dream sits there in the middle of the courtyard on the slate around the frozen fountain, wrapped up in thick furs and an equally thick cloak that jars against the pristine ivory of the sky’s noiseless work that has fallen around them. There are a few specks of white that glitter on his collar and in the gossamer gold of his hair, as the earth drinks silver sunlight in its ecstasy, and dusts its consumption across the southern prince to coat him silver, to coat him ice, to coat him winter. He looks lonely, Techno thinks. There are sun and shadows that cast their favour across him, like summer’s evening, like summer teasing, but there is a quiet solitude in the way he huddles, hugs his knees, and shrinks against the furs that envelop him, desperate for even the most minuscule sparks of warmth this frigid wasteland has to offer. He looks small, he looks fragile, he looks lost, and more than anything else, he looks trapped. Trapped in a marriage, trapped in his identity, trapped in his duties, and trapped in a foreign domain where he cannot soar in the skies. 

Techno swallows thickly, before he moves towards him, and the snow crunches crisply underneath his feet, sound incredibly loud and reverberating in the silence of still air. 

“It’s cold,” Dream suddenly says, and Techno does not know how the younger knew that it was him, “Is it always this cold?” His husband does not turn to look at him, even when the rose-haired prince brushes away the snow resting on the stone of the benches to take his seat beside him. 

“I’m afraid so,” Techno replies quietly as he sweeps the crimson fabric of his cloak to the side as to not cascade down into frosty fingers, “What are you looking at?” 

“Me?” Dream hums, “The snow. It doesn’t snow in the south.”

“I see,” Techno says, even though he really doesn’t, “What was life like in the south?” He sneaks a glance over at the younger, and eyes the way his cheeks are flushed, bitten by the cold to bloom red, thinks that he does not belong here, in the harsh claws of north, of winter, of ice, and of blood. His honey skin does not glisten as he imagines it would under gauzy rays of hazy southern sun, and his goldenrod hair rests flaxen and dull. He wants to apologise, but the words rest sticky in his throat. He looks away. 

“Warm,” Dream responds, and there is the faintest of curling at the corner of his lips as reveries flit across his pine irides, “Hot, and incredibly so. We’d go swimming every summer, my brother and I, and fool around. He’d always ask for ice cream or candy floss afterwards too.”

“You’d indulge?”

“Of course,” Dream answers, “You don’t say no to Tubbo.” There is fondness that briefly paints his tone saccharine, but Techno is barely able to sample its sweetness before it fades into the silence that envelops them. 

He struggles to identify the mood of the unsure air between them, struggles to read the language of Dream’s posture and coded expressions, and he struggles to find something to say to his husband while the words that come to his head escape into the sunlight like teasing butterflies. Butterflies are scarce here up in the north, and so are instances where Techno is rendered speechless. 

A lone mandarin duck’s call rings out, at the same time as Dream’s voice. 

“Thank you,” the younger says, suddenly, quietly, and Techno turns to connect gazes with sage depths marred with exhaustion. 

“For what?” 

“For not forcing me,” Dream pauses, “For respecting me.” He says it like he doesn’t deserve it, like he wasn’t expecting it, like he did not dare to even think of it, and it constricts Techno’s chest with a tight feeling he cannot quite put a finger on. 

“You don’t need to thank me for that,” Techno replies simply, “Look, I know our union is a political one and we weren’t exactly given much of a choice, but, I would rather we be warm friends, than cold husbands, if we are to share the rest of our lives bounded together.”

Dream does not answer him for a moment as they sit there together, snow falling, silence breathtaking, cold creeping, until he exhales to breath a cloud of wispy crystals. 

“I think I would like that too,” he stops momentarily, “And I think that I’m glad. I’m glad that it’s you I married.”

Techno thinks that he agrees too. 

\---

It is May, and there is balmy spring sun puddling on the carpeted floors beside him when there is a knock that comes from the heavy oak of his door. It elicits a groan to escape from the northern prince’s lips as he puts down the stack of paperwork he had been poring over all morning, to rub at his temples irritably. 

“Come in,” he calls, before the soft clanking of armour sounds as a guard steps in, bowing quickly and shuddering slightly when Techno pins him under his ruby gaze, “What is it?”

“Y-your royal highness,” the knight begins with a stutter, body stiff, and Techno knows that it would be a matter that concerns their hierarchy - nothing else would cause such uncertainty to lace his voice, not when these are knights that the northern prince has fought along in war with,“The Prince C-consort is out on the training grounds right now and…. He is asking to spar. We- we don’t know what to do because....well…”

Because Dream is not allowed to, Techno remembers. He is forbidden to handle the weight of a sword in his hands to let the hilt glint under weak sunlight, to draw back mighty bows like HouYi and shoot down suns, shoot down sons, to throw himself into the wind with his fists, as if he’s competing against the heavens and its celestial inhabitants themselves, a human waging war with gods - a war that he will never win. 

Techno pushes himself up from his chair, and without another word, he strides from the room with a flutter of his cape, ignoring the sound of confusion the guard makes upon his sudden departure. He does not know what has been lit within him suddenly, but he can feel the electricity crackling through his own blood, body charged like the air before a thunderstorm as, as the primeval instinct for battle rises from the depths of his gut, bubbling and frothing in their excitement and anticipation of the exhilaration that will rush through his system. 

He wants to fight Dream, he realises, wants to talk with him with his blades, know him with his parries, converse with him with his strikes, and finally, get to know his husband who slept beside him every night, so close, yet so far away, and beautiful in a sharp, dazzling way. He wants to see him rise, glorious, with strands of hair sticking to his face from perspiration, yet face rosy and eyes gleaming prettily, triumphant and ascendant. He wants to see Dream fight for himself, let the unruly forest fire flourish to burn bright, to burn resolute, to burn _alive._

When he steps foot onto the rough ground of the training area, Dream’s hair is shining like golden silk under the sun of early spring as he stands there, expectant, fixing Techno with glistering chartreuse irides that flared with a challenge, with indignation. There are sunbeams being birthed in the contours of his jaw, and he thinks that this is the most vibrant he has seen his husband since their marriage, living instead of breathing, skin honey-kissed instead of a pallid flax, eyes bubbling brooks and thundering waterfalls in lush rainforests instead of swamps of dead waters and debris.

“Are you here to stop me?” Dream dares, chin up in defiance and standing tall like the son of a sun god as he watches Techno walk towards him, and sunshine pools on the curve of his lips while the older prince observes him in his splendour. He thinks that he likes this shimmering cloak of early spring that drapes off his spouse, touching him delicately like the early summers that touch June. 

“No,” he replies, ruby gaze fixed on the challenge in front of him, the unsure mutters and whispering of the knights around them fading into a dull murmur as blinding white filters into his mind to drown out all his surroundings, to direct his eyes, devotion and concentration on the magnificence of the sun god’s descendant in front of him, “In fact, I’m here to see just how good the sword work of the South is.”

And then, Dream’s lips quirk up into a smile, a genuine smile that is directed at _him_ , and it’s like nectar in the way it sweetens his features, draws Techno in to want to examine the ambrosia. It’s addictive, it lures him in, speaks of sugar and pleasure, and the northern prince thinks that he wouldn’t fault a single person who fell to their knees in their worship at it. It’s like a shy sun that peeks out from dark clouds after the dreariness of rain, and he realises that it is the first time he has seen Dream smile at him. Properly. 

“Show me what you’ve got, northern soldier.”

They meet in the middle. 

The wooden blades of their swords they picked up vibrate as they thud against each other, and Dream spins on his heel to dodge Techno’s blade that he slashes out with, followed by a parry that startles the rose-haired prince in the strength behind his partner’s block. There is an exhilarating grin that paints the southern prince’s face with sunrise, with aurora, as he lunges forwards with a thrust of his wooden sword too, and it is Techno’s turn to avoid its blunt edge. They fight like they dance, and they fight like they love. 

He is more than gold, Techno realises as he deflects another jab, brow furrowing in his concentration while a bead of sweat trickles down his forehead and the dawn strands of his hair flick with his movements. Gold is lustrous, and gold is dazzling, yet it is only a soft metal of splendour. No, underneath Dream's gilded exterior, there is gunmetal and iron flowing through his veins, the metal of a soldier's shield, the metal of a warrior's axe. He will slash at you until you wield him with respect, and understand his blade - only then, will he bring you to victory. Dream grunts at the shudder of his wooden sword against a particularly powerful swing from the taller, but the elegance in his sword style is not lost as he pivots to fall away from Techno. 

He’s had enough of the the conversation of blades, enough of the dance Dream performs with footwork that is intricate and graceful in the way he keeps up with the rigorous pace the northern prince keeps. He wants more, he craves more, and the urge to conquer countries surges through him as with a growl, he strikes and sends the wooden sword tumbling from Dream’s hands after a clumsy, useless block from the younger who stumbles and falls back. Techno shows no mercy in his relentless chasing as he closes the distance between them, and points the tip of the blade right at his husband’s jugular, barely a breath shy of the dew that glisters on his skin, and watches almost deliriously as Dream swallows. 

“I win,” he says, “Do you yield?” Their quiet huffs fill the slashed air as they gain their breaths, and Dream closes his eyes as he tilts his head back, shutters to forest irides closing as his shoulders sag in acknowledgement of his defeat, in acknowledgement of gunmetal’s austere vigour, of gold’s dazzling lustre. His husband leans forward, the grooved edges of the sword digging slightly into the papery-smooth skin of his throat, and it startles Techno from his daze before he’s jerking the weapon away in confusion. 

“Are you-”

Dream twists quicksilver fast, like he’s an arrow that’s been released from a bow, the spear launched from a warrior, like he’s a striking viper, and he sweeps Techno’s legs out from underneath him. The northern prince hits the ground with a grunt, and the sword slips from his grasp as the air is knocked from his chest. Before he can even get up, there is a weight that settles over his hips and nicked edges of smoothened wood pressed against his throat, and Techno looks up to see a coy smile playing on Dream’s lips, razor sharp and lethal in the way that it lures its prey in with its sweetness, soaked in honey and dripping with sin, teasing in the way it denies hunters the satisfaction of their domination, seizes their hearts in his fists to shatter them before they even dared thinking of staking their claim. 

“No,” Dream says as Techno stares up at him, stares up at the panting angel who had the sun behind him, illuminating him with Helios’ radiance, “I don’t yield, Techno. I win.” The collar of his husband’s tunic has fallen open from their sparring, and it flutters in the spring air as Techno does not reply to him, instead, observing the way the younger’s cheeks are flushed with pink, the way rebel strands of his hair flit in the wind like small bouts of sand. He really is the golden prince of the south, Techno thinks. 

Around them, the wind blows and sweeps with it the fluttering of golden petals, and it is not until the flowers settle, does Techno speak. 

“I yield.”

\---

Dream is buttoning up his blouse as daybreak dusts his pearlescent shirt with quartz, when Techno speaks. 

“I want you to come with me to the meeting today.”

Techno does not look at him when his husband raises his head in question, instead letting his garnet irides sweep across the amber-hued gardens under their chamber’s windows, the trees donning fantastic topaz and merlot as autumn settled quietly, bringing with it a hush and a chill in the breeze that ruffles at the pale blue material of the northern prince’s shirt. In the early hours of morning, there’s a tranquil peace that washes over him, washes over them, and he thinks mournfully that it would not last long. Not with the upcoming political meeting where he was sure to receive piercing migraines from listening to the tittering of greedy lords and arrogant governors. 

“As your consort?” Dream does not ask him why. _As your spouse, as decoration, as a plaything to keep you entertained, as a show of peace?_

“No,” Techno replies as he shifts to turn back and face his husband on their bed, the eve of day with its watercolour-dipped fingers smearing their splendour over his features, “As my friend.” _As someone I trust, as my partner, as my equal._

Dream watches him for a long time, and neither of them speak. He feels it in the air between them, something twisting languidly with odd sparks of luminescence to form a shimmering veil that blankets them with a layer of emotions that Techno is not quite able to identify. He cannot tell what Dream is thinking when he tries to peer through the sage-painted windows of the younger, peer into the galaxies of his mind, peer under emerald lake waters that ripple from lurid heat. 

“Okay,” Dream says softly, suddenly, and it does not register in the northern prince’s head for a few moments as he blinks in mild surprise at the fact the golden-haired royal even agreed. Then his words come to Techno with something akin to relief that spreads in his gut like thick honey, and he thinks that Dream is dangerous. Dangerous in how he makes Techno think that he is wanted, when in fact, he knows of his husband’s teeth and fury, knows of the fire that burns within him as he holds himself back from ripping a king from their throne to drag their kingdom down with only a coy smile and delicate dusting of rose buds set high on his cheeks. He is dangerous in the way that he only needs to utter the simplest of words or spin an empty praise on his tongue to make a god out of a mortal. 

He is dangerous in the way that he makes Techno _feel._

“Okay,” he echoes numbly, and almost stumbles in his stride at the light chuckle that tinkles as it escapes from Dream’s lips. He is such a fool. 

Together, they make their way to the meeting room, side by side and a comfortable silence hanging in the air between them while paintings pass, footsteps sound, and clothes rustle. Techno nods at the servants who held the gilded mahogany doors open for them, before he sweeps inside with Dream following him, and the various lords that previously sat at the table rise to greet him. 

And just like that, the summer that had previously enveloped him and his husband in their private moments of tentativity comes and ends upon his entrance paired with the sight of the walking headaches in front of him, and the heat of summer dissipates. The sun is swallowed by a thick, wet fog that unspools from the hills like cobwebs, spreading tendrils of white and slate around them, and he hates the suffocation and heavy feeling of weariness that drops on his shoulders already. 

With a wave of his hand and an inaudible sigh, he dismisses their formalities to let them sit while he pulls up an ornately-edged chair for Dream to sit in beside him at the head of the table. Said male nods his thanks, before he is making himself comfortable, and Techno too takes his seat. While Phil was king and was to oversee large political gatherings, smaller meetings like such were usually trusted to Techno to manage, as well as to use as a means to gain experience. 

“Alright,” he says, blood red eyes sharp and a film of steel layering across molten pools of lava, “Speak if you have any issues to discuss.” He despises maintaining such pretenses, maintaining the facade that he wants to be here, pretending that he enjoys listening to the cacophony of voices that demand corrupt things from him when all it does is make thunder split his mind. 

A chair creaks slightly to cleave the weighty silence, and Techno raises his gaze to watch with ire as one of the more annoying flies in the room stands, greasy leer of counterfeit pleasure making his round cheeks shine ruddy under the light of the chandelier suspended above them. 

“Your highness,” Lord Follis begins, and his nasally voice does absolute wonders to worsen Techno’s increasingly bad mood, “If I may, I am here to request an expansion of my current winery enterprise.”

He doesn’t respond, instead choosing to cock his head to one side and narrow his eyes. He thinks that he knows where this is going already, and he will have to deal yet again with childish tantrums thrown by a spoiled man when he is denied. 

“Surely the royal family knows of how excellent Follis wines is, only those as honourable as us taste it after all.” _You whine just as much as your winery produces, but alright._

“I am not an avid drinker,” Techno replies monotonously instead, “But it’s unbelievable alright.” _Unbelievably expensive, you greedy aristocratic bastard._

“Perfect, I believe that if I was to expand the business, then everyone would be able to taste Follis wines, of course, it would be an expensive feat considering our quality, but surely it is worth it?” 

The northern prince opens his mouth to reject his offer, but there is a voice that beats him to it.

“Who is the ‘everyone’ that you speak so casually of, your Lordship?”

Dream’s question hangs in the air, suspended by glass-blown chains ready to shatter and decimate the council with the brutality of his honesty, and it makes him shrink slightly, face marred with uncertainty as he looks towards Techno, tilting his head as if questioning his rights to speak. And Techno thinks that there is something proud that bubbles within him as he offers a comforting nod to his husband, the most subtle of grins curling the corners of his lips up before he sits back, eager to watch a villain’s fall. 

“I...I’m sorry?” Lord Follis replies, eyes wide and his forced smile of pleasantry freezing on his face. Techno wishes that he could frame a painting of it. 

“I asked,” Dream says confidently, back straightening, chin up, glory rippling in the tangled cobwebs of his hair with candlelight dusting them topaz, “Who do you mean by ‘everyone’ when you say ‘everyone would be able to taste Follis wines’?”

“Why, your highness, of course-”

“You said it yourself that the wine is quite expensive, and the fact that the royal family drinks it already says enough of its price,” The southern prince interrupts, “The expansion of your winery would require more money to be taken from the poorer citizens in order to fund your enterprise, which does not give back to them at all.” Techno can already see a few other counsellors nodding along in agreement, their actions only aggravating Lord Follis’ panic and indignation as the suffocating saccharine of the old man’s simper turns bitter. He thinks can almost smell the anger and humiliation that radiates off of him like hubris, like soot, and he is not above admitting the amount of satisfaction it brings him. “Who is ‘everyone’, Lord Follis?” Dream presses finally, “The poor civilians who beg for food on the streets as they have their earnings robbed from them by the rich, or the royal family and noble aristocratic families?” 

“Now I don’t think you know much about the intricate workings of finance and politics but-”

“You would be wrong in saying that, your lordship, but I am merely pointing out the lacklustre aspects of your idea.” 

Techno sees the way that Dream’s rebuke sends Lord Follis’ self control over the edge before he even hears it, he sees it in the way his face hardens, reddens, contorts, stains with malice and spite.

“And I am thinking that a whore should hardly be in a political meeting.” 

Oh that’s _low_ , Techno thinks, and he’s not going to have any of it either. From the corner of his eye, he can see Dream’s tense figure, and the rose-haired prince reaches out to gently pat his clenched hands, takes slender digits with his own calloused fingers to channel his reassurance into his spouse, ground the thunder, tug at the storm. _I’m here._

“Watch your tongue, Lord Follis,” he says, and said man’s face turns whiter than the snow that enshrouded their kingdom with a bone-chilling frostiness during winter, “The prince consort is here because I requested him to come with me.”

“The prince consort should not be-”

“The prince consort is my equal,” Techno interrupts, baritone rumble ringing and echoing in the room to let its authority seep into every crevice, ancient and commanding in its confidence and power, “He is neither inferior to me, nor is he to be respected any less. His word, is mine, and mine, his. I do not want to hear those filthy words come from your mouth again, or there will be consequences. Do you understand?” 

Lord Follis shrinks back, cowers, stung by the threat in his words, and dips his head before taking his seat, muttering ‘yes’ and avoiding the lingering gazes from the other council members in the room. He has not been tamed, no, Techno is sure that the elder man will be sure to bring up another petty advance some time in the future, and the thought of it makes him want to groan, but for now, it will have to do. 

“Good. I agree with the prince consort, the winery expansion is a terrible idea and will not go through. Now if there is nothing else to discuss, you’re all dismissed.” 

When he shows no sign of rising, the others quickly chimed their respects, before one by one, departed, and brought with them, the choking smog of gluttony. It is not until the doors have closed, does the rose haired prince slump back in his seat, raking a hand through his hair while a weary sigh escapes his lips. Dream is quiet beside him - not that Techno blames him after that entire ordeal - and so the northern prince takes the opportunity to prop an elbow up on the gilded handles of the chair and rest his forehead against his hand, closing his eyes. 

He is dozing off when Dream’s tentative voice settles over the tides of his mind, and pulls him from it’s waters with gentle hands. 

“Techno?”  
“Mmm?”

“I...I want to try something.” 

“Mmm. Go for it.”

“Can you...can you keep your eyes closed please?” 

“Mmmm. ‘Kay.”

He doesn’t know what to expect. Perhaps Dream will yank out a candle and burn the meeting room down, perhaps he’ll bring out ropes to bind the elder to the chair while he makes his grand escape home, perhaps he’ll bring out a dagger that he’s been hiding all along to finally exact his revenge on a husband he does not love, on a husband who is more a cage than a man, perhaps he’ll-

Technoblade freezes when he feels gentle hands thumbing at his cheeks, and it takes him by surprise so much that his eyes almost fly open in bewilderment to try and see Dream, see his eyes, see his lips and his face, see his thoughts, and see his mind. He aches for it, aches to understand, but he would rather continue resisting this throbbing urge to discover, than to betray the trust of his spouse. He can feel the fingers trembling slightly as they cup his cheek, trace constellations onto the contours of his jaw, light, timid, afraid of the beast that Techno will never show to him, and he is moving before he can even think.

He does so slowly. He starts with a shift, shift to face summer, face gold, before he gently grips the slender wrists of his husband, tugging slightly to bring him closer, and then he is turning his head to lean into Dream’s touch. He can hear the way the younger’s breath hitches at his actions, and Techno thinks that if he was able to see the flaxen-haired prince right now, that his chartreuse eyes would be wild, cheeks blooming a lovely shade of red, and peach lips fallen open to mouth a silent ‘oh’.

Techno struggles to identify if the hands he leans into are ones of the prince consort, or ones of his husband. 

He finds that he doesn’t particularly care, however. 

“This okay?” he hums, and he can almost hear the thoughts washing over Dream in waves as there is a brief pause in which the younger things, before he replies. 

“Yeah. Thank you.” 

“Of course.” 

He makes no move to pull away, and neither does Dream. They stay like that, with the sound of silence ringing between them sweetly like honey, thick in its texture but oh so warm on the tongue. He thinks that he can hear the spring rain outside gradually dwindle into non-existence, and can almost picture the overcast shadows that blurred the vision of heavens, seeping away into astral heights. 

It used to just be him. Him slumped alone in this empty meeting room, a cold marble mausoleum of a room, sometimes staying after the moon had set and left him with complete darkness: not a hint of the silver world outside, the windows tightly shut, the chamber a tomb-world where no sound except the voices in his head could penetrate. But now, Dream is with him, and he thinks that he can feel the warm-cool air of blowing spring on the silvered floors and golden frames, and he thinks that he can detect the faintest breath of fresh apricots and strawberries in the air that wafts through the open shutters. 

A familiar voice rouses him from his musings. 

“Thank you.”

“For not opening my eyes? Yeah sure no prob-”

Dream interrupts him, voice quiet, but sure. 

“No. For earlier. In the meeting.” Techno makes a sound of acknowledgement. 

“Can I open my eyes?”  
“What-? Oh- yes- I’ll stop-” 

The northern prince grasps at his arm before he can pull away, and drinks in the way Dream watches him, startled, chandelier spinning and weaving their bronze light into the curls of his husband’s fair locks, fingers deft and skilled as if they were Arachne’s very own. 

“You don’t need to thank me,” he begins, and he is like the eager watcher of a marionette show, anticipating each flicker of Dream’s eyelid, each rise of his chest, each shudder of his shoulders, the moment before it began, “I should be sorry that you needed to go through that, and that I was not able to punish him properly for his disrespect.”

“No-” the younger blurts out, before he stops, as if surprised by his own outburst. Techno does not interrupt him. Only watches. Only waits.  
“No,” Dream starts again, slowly, nothing but a murmur and susurration of uncertainty before it crescendos into the admission from a deity, “You did the right thing. Had you punished him, people would’ve spread rumours on how you were a psychopathic ruler who held his advisors with little regard and prioritised the follies of pleasure.” 

_But he stained your name. He stained your grace, stained your honour, stained the pains of your sacrifice, stained the smile you had given me before we entered._

“He-” 

And then there’s the pad of a finger gently tapping on Techno’s lips as the emerald-eyed prince hushes him, and he thinks that the vastness of the world and the shadows of it’s woes, the light of it’s joys, all in its entirety, condenses itself into the light brushing of Dream’s digit against his lips. 

“Sshh,” his husband whispers, and the rose-haired prince thinks that he can see lurid glimmers of stellar bodies in his sage irides, “Enough. You’re tired, and there’s still some time left before lunch. Let’s go back to our chambers so that you can get some rest. I’ll wake you when you need to be.” 

And as Dream helps him up, walks with him, walks _beside_ him, back to their room, Techno can’t help but feel that the air between them is different to the one before they entered the meeting room. 

He doesn’t quite know what about it is different though. 

\---

Something between them changes. 

Technoblade doesn’t notice it, but it buds like a spring blossom until it flourishes, efflorescent, and the pollen that bursts from it in sweet clouds causes a fizzing in his stomach that is light and delicate like strawberry champagne. 

Gradually, they go together everywhere: 

The gardens on a balmy summer’s day where he would rest his head on Dream’s lap and doze off while said prince would read a book. He likes fantasy, Techno observes one day while eyeing the covers of the novel.

The study where they worked in silence together through copious amounts of scrolls and parchments bearing their respective whining from lords with too much time on their hands. Dream has the habit of slightly scrunching his nose when he is focusing, and he’ll poke out his tongue slightly when there is a complication that annoys him, Techno notes. 

The library where they spend cozy autumn evenings beside a roaring hearth, the crackling of the fireplace chipper in their ears as they occasionally read out a verse they think the other will like from whatever book they happen to be reading. Techno finds out that his husband enjoys poetry. 

The winter woods which they ride through on their horses, and the rustle of undergrowth as a fox scuttles away leaves Dream chuckling and pointing it out to Techno. They don’t hunt, but they seek, and Techno notices that he likes to pause and admire the dogwood trees every time. 

The local town, where spring zephyrs embrace them and brings with it the aroma of freshly baked sweets. Techno has already remembered which ones Dream likes the most. 

The training grounds, where they spar with early fall gales sweeping their hair and the leaves underneath their feet into dances as intricate as their footwork. Techno knows now that Dream likes the heavy and stabilising weight of a wicked battle axe in his sturdy grip instead of the light elegance and agility of the polished diamond swords Techno favours. 

And most of all, their chambers, where Techno sometimes wakes up in the morning to an arm loosely snaked around his waist, or his hand resting on the blonde-haired prince’s hips. Techno never wakes Dream up - he only traces the way the golden locks of his partner gets painted with the rose of its dawn, gazes at the quartz of his skin, and the slight dusting of constellations across the bridge of his nose. 

The prince consort attends the meetings with him. His partner gives him ingenious ideas to deal with nagging lords. His spouse dines with him and makes light, but comforting chatter. His husband steps forwards to smoothen out the creases of Techno’s shirt collars. Dream looks at him, and he smiles as they go about their days as usual. 

Nothing between them is different.

\---

It is early spring, when Techno falls sick. 

The snow outside of March’s eve has not yet melted, when he is bundled up in bed with thick blankets and furs, body shivering from the chills that wracked his figure while his cheeks were ruddy from the fever that emanated heat from his very core. A combination of overworking himself as well as forgetting to bring his thick cloaks when he stays up into the witching hours of the night to deal with mountains of paperwork brought the man down like no other - except for Dream, of course. 

He vaguely registers the royal physician leaving medication and instructions with the servants, yet his sight was too scissored to see, hearing too fragmented, senses too dulled to understand any specifics. Despite it all, he thinks that he can pick out Dream murmuring his thanks to the doctor, before the feverish prince feels a dip in the mattress beside him, and blinks his bleary eyes open to be faced with worry streaking through the emerald seas of his husband’s eyes. 

“Mmmm ‘ello,” Techno mumbles tiredly as a greeting, and he finally realises that disease is innately more devastating than war of man, “‘m sick. Don’t get too close.” 

“Oh, I know,” Dream says gently, before he reaches out a hand to brush away the long locks of rose from the elder’s matter forehead, “You’re burning up alright, sweetheart.” Techno instinctually closes his eyes again, leaning into his husband’s cool touch that was his oasis in the middle of a never-ending desert. Nirvana in hell, an anchor in choppy seas. There’s something tender about it, loving in a way that he’s too scared to believe, and he feels _safe._

“Don’t want medicine. Bitter.” 

“You’ll have to drink it if you want to recover.” 

“Mmn. Terrible.” 

The younger lets out a chuckle at his sardonic quip, sharp even when his voice itself was slurred from drowsiness. It rings light in the stuffy air of their chamber, pleasant and like bellbirds instead of the grating of the servant’s scurrying about and chattering. 

“I’ll get you some water.” 

Techno does not realise that his body has moved - and faster than any sick man should have been able to - until he hears Dream’s breath hitch, and then he is grasping onto his husband’s hands with a beseeching grip. 

“Stay,” he whispers, “Please?”

The younger’s face crumples, softens, and the winter sun is pale gold on the contours of his jaw, like warm butter, like gossamer silk, before he once again is sitting back down on the bed. He doesn’t let go of the long-haired prince’s hand either. 

“Of course,” the fair-haired boy murmurs, and he reaches over to the mahogany bedside table and picks up his book with one hand before flipping it open and smoothing out the page. Techno watches him, watches the way his lips shape the syllables and move to let the words spill from the page and into the bronze-flecked air between them to pool and fill the room as if it was a music box, and he, the chimes. 

“Love urges one thing: reason another,” Dream recites, “I see, and I desire the better: I follow the worse. Why do you burn for a stranger, royal virgin, and dream of marriage in an alien land?”

The mullions of the large windows cast long shadows across the floor, yet through them, the light streams like rivulets of molten lava, and the rose-haired prince thinks that Dream, sitting before the luminescent edifices, king of stellar bodies, still appeared far more brilliant than all gleams. 

“Carried by the winds, shall I leave my native country, my sister, my brother, my father, and my gods?”

In that moment, Techno lets go. Not of Dreams’ hand, but of the lock of his mind he had been grasping so tightly his knuckles turned alabaster. He lets the heavy metal fall, reaches out to pull the windows open, and he finally lets himself acknowledge his thoughts he had kept hidden away and repressed behind barred shutters for a long time. 

“I will not be leaving greatness behind, but pursuing greatness.” 

He loves him.

“Who, but the heartless, would not be touched by Jason’s youth, and birth, and courage?”

Dream is still reading to him, when the world slips away from his recognition and consciousness. 

He does not let go of his lover’s hand. 

\---

Nyx has embraced the universe in her otherworldly embrace of blue, when there is a knock on the door to his study, and Techno pauses. Candles ward off Erebus’ advances as the rose-haired prince sets down his brush and palette, smudging goldenrod paint over his fingers and streaks of coral on accident. 

“Come in,” he says out loud, and expects for a tentative guard to greet him with important news of some sort to be asking for an audience this late at night, but instead, a tentative head pokes in from behind the cedar doors, gold and bronze filling his vision as Dream eyes him. The northern prince feels his throat dry up as he swallows, and there is panic that bubbles in his gut even when he forces his voice to mask its tremor, “What are you doing up so late? I thought you went to sleep already.” 

Dream slips in the room quietly, shutting the door with a gentle click behind him, and Techno forces himself to jerk his eyes away from the thin white shirt his husband wears, the pearlescent fabric, silken, and just a little too large on him. It softens him, drapes around him, smoothes out the sculpted planes of his jaw with the light of fire and snow, and banishes the weight of his duties and identity from his shoulders. He looks seraphic, and with the flickering of candles washing rust and copper over him, blowing sweet caramel through his locks and the air between them, Techno thinks it’s almost sinful to look. 

“I woke up. You weren’t there,” Dream replies softly, and the elder can hear his footsteps draw near, “You’re painting?” 

“I...yes.”

Dream hums. 

“I didn’t know you painted.”

“Not very well.” 

“May I see?”

Techno pauses, breath stops, heart beats. “ _He will hate you”,_ the voices in his head tell him, “ _he will think that you’re terribly creepy.”_

“Sure,” he replies, and moves over. He does not look up when Dream walks over, does not look up when Dream stops in front of the canvas and easel, does not look up when Dream gazes at the painting. The apprehension only thickens within him when the younger does not say anything, and the northern prince does not know when he has begun gripping the cuff of his sleeve tightly. 

“Sorry,” he fumbles, mustering up the courage to rip his gaze away from the carpet underneath him to look at his husband, “I didn’t- I didn’t mean to. Well. Paint you without your- without your permission. I wanted to paint you. But I didn’t know if I could- if you would find it odd and-” 

“It’s gorgeous,” Dream interrupts, and just like that, the wraiths in Techno’s head dissipate into nothing as he stares at the southern prince, stares at the way the fair-haired boy ghosts his fingers just above the drying paint, emerald eyes unblinking as he takes in the brush strokes that Techno had made meticulously to form the honeyed features of the golden prince himself. There’s a kind of gentle wonder in his glistering irides that touches over everything with a tireless curiosity, and it steals the breath from Techno without fail. 

_“You’re gorgeous,”_ Techno thinks, but does not say. He doesn’t say many of his thoughts - he doesn’t say any of his thoughts of Dream, in fact. 

“He looks happy,” Dream notes quietly, and his eyes are still fixated on the gentle curve of his own lips in the painting, the glitter of liberty in his pine eyes, the freedom in the mischievous stray strands of marigold hair. 

“Is he happy?” Techno asks before he can even think, before he can even process the words spilling from his lips, and he promptly freezes - he realises that he is scared to hear the answer. 

Dream does not speak for the longest of times. His voice stays silent, his mind stays tumultuous, and his breathing stays even. The northern prince watches the gentle rise and fall of his husband’s shoulders as a clamorous silence rings between them, ringing concinnities of their thoughts resounding mutely. Techno does not know if he can take it, and he is opening his mouth to change the topic, to usher them off to bed, before Dream replies quietly with the most deafening of words. 

“Yes,” his husband breathes, “Yes he is.”

Neither of them speak when they return to their chambers together and climb into bed. 

Techno does not sleep the entire night, and neither do his thoughts. 

\---

Boreas visits them again, but Techno does not notice his winds.

The ballroom is bustling with chattering people, all extravagantly dressed and adorned with jewels while soft music resonates from a chamber orchestra to let the symphonies swirl around the arches of the ballroom, drape from the crystal chandeliers, tease the flames of the candles, and dissipate into the festive air. 

He registers none of it, however, for his attention was stolen away the moment he caught sight of the figure descending the crimson-carpeted marble stairs. 

The land of the south is the land of silk, fortune, and dreams, he remembers, and he sees it too: sees the silk of Dream’s robes, the glitter of gems and glister of metallic threads that detail the pale drapes of white and jade which adorn the southern prince, and the boy himself seems to have stepped out of a reverie - one that Technoblade does not know if he wants to wake up from or not. There’s something shy about the way he offers the elder a small grin, faint rouge kissing his cheeks to flush them a delicate pink, and said rose-haired prince thinks that he can spot a flash of gold dusted gently on his lashes, on the pert arch of his cupid’s bow, and on the planes of his cheeks. He is worthy of being a child of Aphrodite, Techno thinks. 

“Shall we?” He says as he offers a hand upon Dream nearing him, and the words sound almost flimsy, far too simple for the deity in front of him to accept, but there is nothing else he can think of. He is just surprised already that he has not fumbled with the two mere syllables already. 

“We shall,” Dream answers with a soft smile, before he slips his hand gracefully into Techno’s, and the two make their way to the centre of the ballroom. He does not listen to the music, body moving instead on auto-pilot and from years of dance ingrained into him. Instead, he feels the fire spreading under the digits that rested on his shoulder while he gripped the younger’s hips lightly with one hand, swaying to the beat and being shattered invisibly yet so magnificently by his husband’s touch. 

“You look stunning tonight,” Techno says, and Dream hums. It’s true though, and Techno thinks that the diamonds on his neck are no match for his lover’s lustre. 

“Yeah?” the shorter replies with a twinkle in his eyes, “Thank you. Just tonight though?” 

“I- that’s not what I-” Techno stumbles with his words, and Dream laughs, chuckle lacking maliciousness of any kind. 

“I’m just joking. You don’t look half bad yourself, your highness.” 

“You jest again.” 

Dream makes a noise of acknowledgement. 

“Maybe I am. But maybe I mean it too. There have been numerous eyes of several ladies on you tonight after all.” 

They’re barrelling right into dangerous territories. Techno knows this, and so does Dream. If the elder was a grand ship nearing land, nearing home, then Dream’s words were the beautiful reef that lay hidden under shallows - gorgeous, yet devastating in how they could unravel the mahogany structure and drag it down into the silence of the seas with them. The floor boards would be stuck, the hull would be ripped, sails shredded and fluttering weakly in the wind to leave a spectacular vision of destruction. 

Techno can see the reef. 

And he steers right towards it. 

“What, are you jealous?” he asks, mouth running before he can even stop it. 

Dream looks up at him, and the light of the chandeliers fall across his features, spill into his eyes and capture the fading light of the day to shine like a golden rainbow. 

“What if I was?” Dream challenges softly, and all of a sudden, he’s all that Techno can sense, he smells the wildflowers that adorn his hair, sees the jadeite of his eyes, tastes the sweetness of his allure on his tongue, hears the thrum of his heart and feels the warmth of his body. 

“What?” 

“I said,” Dream repeats as he steps forward, “What if I was jealous?”

The gentle hunger that stirred within him rears its head in the form of an explosion, tearing through everything in its path with a fantastic fervour and fire. He can feel the last strands of his resistance and composure fray and snap. 

He burns in the fire. 

He drowns in the reef. 

He loves. 

“Then I would kiss you.”

_I would show you that there is nothing to be jealous of. That I belong to you and only you, that you belong to me and only me. That I would never look in their direction even for a second when you are this radiant in front of me._

There is something that flashes in Dream’s eyes, before the shorter leans forwards and his breath tickles Techno’s ears. 

“I am,” Dream whispers, “I am jealous. So will you show me what you’d do?” 

\---

The door of their chamber has barely closed behind them, before they are falling onto the bed and there is a voice inside his head that is telling Techno to devour, to claim, to ruin. His husband’s body seems to be thrumming under him, melodies just waiting to be played, but if there’s anything that the northern prince has learnt from being a soldier, it’s self control.

“Are you-” he breaks off, eyes blown wide and pupils dilated as he stares down at his lover, sturdy arms bracketing his head and breaths mingling, “Are you sure you want this?” 

“Yes,” Dream breathes, and Techno thinks that he wants to cry. 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You won’t.”  
“I....”

There are hands that come up to cup his cheeks, touch cool and gossamer in its lightness, as Dream smiles tenderly up at him. 

“I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time now.”

Technoblade has not been a soldier for six years now. 

And as Dream leans up to finally slot their lips together, he lets himself be a lover. 

\---

Dream is sitting outside in the snow alone again when Techno finds him. He’s lost count of how many times he has found his husband here. 

The courtyard is deserted once again, with nothing but frost to crystallise blades of grass and bead ice on cobwebs. Fluffy golden hair flecked with white puffs again, the younger does not look at him until he nears. 

"It's cold. you should've brought a thicker cloak," Techno scolds gently, before he sits down quickly and opens his arms. Dream shrugs, before smiling brightly, as if it had been his plan all along, before he shifts closer and leans back to let Techno snake his arms around his waist, tugging his husband closer, and with it, the faintest tang of lime in his golden hair. 

“It’s not so bad. Comforting, even,” Dream replies, and lets out a giggle when the elder rests his head gently on his lover’s shoulder, and said boy reaches up a hand to pat at his wind-bitten face affectionately. “Besides, even if I’m cold, you’ll warm me up, right?"

They know the answer before he says it. 

"Yes," Techno replies, "Always." 

The calls of two mandarin ducks fill the winter air. 

\---

(“Do you think that you would’ve loved your spouse, had you married someone else?” Dream asks him as he shifts his head from where he had been lying it on Techno’s lap to look up at him, and the pink-haired prince’s fingers stop from where they had been raking gently through his lover’s hair as he thinks about it for a second. 

“I don’t know,” he replies truthfully. It is the truth for him, and it is the truth for Dream too, “Maybe I would’ve, and maybe I wouldn’t have. Who’s to know?” His husband hums in agreement, and there is the crackling of the hearth that fills the hazy air between them for a moment, before he continues. 

“I’m glad though,” he says into the comfortable silence, “I’m glad it was you. That I met you. That I fell in love with you. This may not have been a marriage of choice, but it led you to me, it led peace to our countries, and for that, I am glad.”

“Me too,” Dream says softly, with the light of fire teasing his hair before he’s pushing himself up slightly, and Techno leans down to slot their lips together.

This is what it feels like, he realises, to have a husband who is yours, _and_ your nation. This is what it feels like to have a lover who loves both the label of peace, _and_ you, with every single part of his being. 

This is what it feels like to marry a far-away dream, and this is what it feels like to love the Dream.)

**Author's Note:**

> Trivia time bc i am a loser for detail!  
> 1\. Lord Follis’ name comes from the latin word ‘follis’ which means ‘bellows, windbag’, and by extension ‘empty-headed person’ so he’s a fool through and through  
> 2\. I specifically chose the mandarin duck here bc in chinese culture, they symbolise conjugal bliss, fidelity, and wedded bliss (and so are often used to decorate fabrics or stuff in chinese weddings). They’re also pretty much always depicted in pairs because of what they symbolise, so run off with this piece of information if you’d like to when thinking abt the specific numbers of mandarin ducks i mentioned C:  
> 3\. The verses that Dream reads are from Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book VII: 1-73 where Medea agonises over her love for Jason :))
> 
> I just also want to specifically comment on the line “Techno struggles to identify if the hands he leans into are ones of the prince consort, or ones of his husband.” in case some find this confusing bc i’m essentially describing Dream twice - but i’m doing so about his different identities. In the meeting room scene, Techno doesn’t know if Dream is pushing himself to try and be affectionate with him because Dream thinks that he is obligated to (since he’s married to Techno and they’re expected to have a lovely marriage and relationship to keep peace), or if Dream is doing it because he is exploring his own boundaries and feelings (and is doing it of his own volition + comfort). Idk I just thought I’d quickly explain it bc to me it was a line that I thought about a lot on how to write. 
> 
> And uhhh not to plug my socials or anything but my instagram’s @quqi_n!! Just dm me “you don’t make good decision” (bc i don’t) and i’ll accept ur follow request :))


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